The investigators

NINETEEN

While Mr. Michael J. O'Hara of the Philadelphia Bulletin enjoyed a close personal relationship with many-indeed, almost all-of the senior supervisors of the Philadelphia Police Department, the White Shirts, as a general rule, did not provide him with the little tidbits of information from which Mr. O'Hara developed the stories in which his readers were interested.

The unspoken rules of the game were that if Mr. O'Hara posed a question to a senior White Shirt based upon what he had dredged up visiting the various districts and the special units of the Philadelphia Police Department, he would either be given a truthful answer, or asked to sit on the germ of a story, and they would get back to him later-and more important, first, before his competitors-when releasing the information would be appropriate.

The unspoken rules were scrupulously observed by both sides. The White Shirts would indeed get back to Mickey O'Hara first as soon as they could. And on his part, even if Mr. O'Hara himself uncovered the answers to the questions-on-hold, he would not print them without at least asking for the reasons he should not, and in nine occasions of ten, having been given a reason, would sit on the story until he was told it would be appropriate to publish it.

The White Shirts were aware that no manner of stern admonition to lower-ranking police officers would stop them from furnishing Mr. O'Hara with facts they thought would interest him. Ninety-five percent of the uniformed police officers of the Philadelphia Police Department thought of Mr. O'Hara as one of their own.

In each of Philadelphia's police districts, the day-to-day administrative routines are under the supervision of a corporal. The corporal is always assisted by a "trainee," which is something of a monumental misnomer, as the term would suggest to the layman a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, very young police officer.

Quite the reverse is true. Many trainees are veteran police officers with many years on the job, who for a variety of reasons, but often their physical condition, are not up to walking a beat, or riding around in a radio patrol car for eight hours. They don't wish to go out on a pension, and being designated a trainee both gives them something important to do and gives the district the benefit of their long experience.

Michael J. O'Hara knew every trainee in the Philadelphia Police Department by his first name, and just about every trainee felt privileged to consider himself a friend of the Pulitzer prize-winning journalist.

When Mickey O'Hara went into the 1st District Headquarters at 24th and Wolf streets in Southwest Philadelphia, he caught the attention of the corporal behind the plate-glass window and mimed drinking from a coffee cup. The corporal smiled, gave Mickey a thumbs-up, and pushed the button that activated the lock on the door that carried the caveat, ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE-POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY.

Mickey went into the room, helped himself to a cup of coffee, and put a dollar bill into the coffee kitty.

"Shit, Mickey, you don't have to do that!" the trainee, a portly, florid-faced fifty-year-old with twenty-six years on the job, said.

"I am simply upholding the reputation of those of Gaelic extraction as perfect gentlemen," Mickey replied.

(In truth, this was not entirely a benevolent gesture. The dollar would be reported on Mr. O'Hara's expense account as "Coffee and Doughnuts for three, 1st Police District, $8.50.")

The corporal and the trainee laughed, then laughed even louder when Mickey told them the story of the cop in the 19th District who, after he'd had a couple of belts on the way home, realized it was not only three A.M. when he got there, but that he probably smelled of perfume which was not that of his wife. Knowing that if he tried to take a shower, his wife would hear the water and wake up for sure, he needed a better idea, and found one. He tiptoed into the bathroom, remembering not to turn on the lights, because that would wake the wife. Then he stripped and sprayed himself liberally all over with deodorant. When he sniffed himself, he thought he could still smell perfume, so he sprayed himself again, and then tiptoed into the bedroom and eased himself into bed without waking his wife.

"That took him about ninety seconds," Mickey finished. "Just long enough for the wife's hair spray-what he thought was deodorant-to glue his wang to his left leg and his balls to the other."

The laughter emanating from the office was of such volume as to attract the attention of the district commander and the tour lieutenant, who looked into the office, saw Mr. O'Hara, and entered the office to say hello.

Mickey repeated the story for their edification and amusement, and they chatted about mutual acquaintances for several minutes. The district captain told Mickey he and the lieutenant were going to ride around-which he knew meant take a look around the 1st District-and invited him to join them.

He declined with thanks. They shook hands, and the White Shirts left the office.

Neither the corporal nor the trainee thought it out of the ordinary-or inappropriate-when Mickey went to a clipboard containing the most recent communications from the Roundhouse, took it off its nail, and started reading them.

He found one of interest.

A Locate, Do Not Detain had been issued on one Ronald R. Ketcham, white male, twenty-five, five-ten, brown hair, 165 pounds, of an address on Overbrook Avenue, which Mickey recognized as being near the Episcopal Academy. The bulletin said he might be driving a Buick coupe, and gave the license number. The cooperation of suburban police departments was requested.

What attracted Mr. O'Hara's attention was that the Locate, Do Not Detain ordered that any information generated on Mr. Ketcham be immediately furnished directly to ChInsp. Coughlin or Insp. Wohl or Sgt. Washington-it gave their telephone numbers-rather than be reported through ordinary channels.

Mickey carried the clipboard to the trainee.

"Pat, what's this, do you think?"

"Yeah, I noticed that. The last I heard, Denny Coughlin wasn't running Missing Persons. I don't have a clue."

"Name doesn't ring a bell?"

Pat shook his head, "no."

"Probably some ambulance chaser took off for Atlantic City with his squeeze, and the wife came home from Mama's before she was expected."

"Probably," Mickey said, although he didn't think so.

He thought about it a minute, then decided he would not call Denny Coughlin and ask him what it was all about.

Paragraph 11. B. of the Unspoken Rules required that, in a situation like this, he make inquiries of the senior White Shirt whose name he had, to avoid putting the subordinates on the spot about what to tell him. Denny Coughlin would tell him, of course. But that would use up a favor, and Mickey liked to have Denny Coughlin in his debt, rather than the other way around.

So Mickey didn't call Chief Inspector Coughlin, but instead filed Ronald R. Ketcham away in a corner of his mind, to be retained until he heard something else.

Officer Tommy O'Mara put his head into Captain Michael Sabara's office.

"Sir, there's a civilian who wants to talk to you."

"To me, personally?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did this civilian say what he wants?"

"No, sir."

Sabara picked up the telephone, punched the flashing button, and, somewhat impatiently announced: "This is Captain Sabara. How can I help you?"

"My name is Phil-Philip-Chason, Captain. Does that ring a bell?"

Sabara quickly searched his memory.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Chason. How may I help you?"

"I was with you last night, Captain, at Captain Beidermann 's retirement party. I was hoping you'd remember."

"Oh, of course," Sabara lied kindly. "My memory is failing."

"I used to be a detective," Chason said. "I went out on medical disability after twenty-six years on the job."

"How can I help you, Mr. Chason?"

"Karl and I went to the Academy together. I just found out that he meant it when he told us last night he was going to Florida in the morning. Otherwise, I would have gone to him."

"Oh?"

"I've stumbled onto something that bothers me. And I don't want to go to Narcotics with it. Or Major Crimes. Or Intelligence."

"Stumbled onto what?" Sabara asked, a trifle impatiently.

"I was hoping you'd have fifteen minutes to hear me out."

"This concerns Narcotics? This is Special Operations, we don't deal-"

"Narcotics and the mob," Phil said. "I really think I wouldn't be wasting your time."

"You want to see me now, is that it?"

"I'd like to, yes."

"You know where I am?"

"Frankford and Castor?"

"Right. I'll be expecting you."

"Thank you."

Sabara hung up and then raised his voice: "Tommy!"

Officer O'Mara appeared.

"Just for your general information, Officer O'Mara, that unnamed civilian who called me has a name."

"Yes, sir?"

"His name is Chason," Sabara said. "And he's coming to see me. When he comes in, bring him right in."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Chason is actually Detective Chason, Retired, Tommy."

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know where your father was last night, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir. He was at Captain Beidermann's retirement party. They were classmates at the Academy."

"Then your father was also a classmate of Detective Chason, Tommy. And he was also at Captain Beidermann 's retirement policy. Now, don't you think you could have at least picked up a little bit of that information regarding Detective Chason before you told me a nameless civilian was on the phone?"

Officer O'Mara considered that.

"Yes, sir. I suppose I should have."

"Good boy!" Sabara said.

"Thank you, sir," Officer O'Mara said, pleased to have been complimented.

"Thank you for seeing me, Captain," Phil said when Of ficer O'Mara-after telling Chason who his father was, and that he understood they were Academy classmates-had taken him into Sabara's office.

"Any friend of Karl's…" Sabara said. "He and I went to Wheel School together. He was a sergeant…"

He waved Chason into an upholstered chair.

"Now that I'm here," Chason said, "I'm beginning to wonder if this was such a hot idea."

"You said you wanted fifteen minutes. You've got it."

"All I've really got is that a guy I suspect-can't prove-has ties to the mob wants-is willing to pay a thousand dollars for-the names of some narcs, and told me a complicated bullshit story to explain why."

"Who's the guy you think has ties to the mob?"

"Joey Fiorello," Phil said. "He runs a car lot on Essington Avenue-"

"I know who Joey is," Sabara interrupted. "Why does he want the names of the narcs?"

"I don't know, but the story he gave me is bullshit."

"You want to start at the beginning?" Sabara said. "How did you come into contact with Joey Fiorello?"

"Well, I went out on medical disability. I got bored, so I got myself a private investigator's license and put an ad in the yellow pages. About a year ago, Fiorello called me, said he saw the ad."

"Called you to do what?"

"What I guess you could call a background investigation. He said he was thinking of offering a guy a job as a salesman, sales manager, and wanted to know about him. I checked out the first one, he was a solid citizen. A couple of months later, same story. Another solid citizen. And he called me a third time, just a little while ago. This time the guy was a real sleazeball, a stockbroker named Ketcham. "

"What was that name?"

"Ketcham, Ronald R. You know it?"

"Tommy!"

Officer O'Mara put his head in the door.

"See if Sergeant Washington is upstairs, will you? If he is, here, now, Tommy."

"Yes, sir."

"Who's Sergeant Washington?" Phil asked.

"Great big black guy? Used to work Homicide? The Black Buddha?"

"Jason's here, and a sergeant?"

"I don't how he feels about being a sergeant, but he doesn't like being here."

Officer O'Mara reported that Sergeant Washington was not in the building but Detective Harris was.

"Ask him to join us, please, Tommy," Sabara said.

"Tony Harris, too?" Phil asked.

"Equally unhappy at not being in Homicide," Sabara said.

Tony Harris came into the office two minutes later.

"Jesus, look what the tide washed up. The poor man's Sam Spade."

"Fuck you, Tony!" Phil replied.

Sabara was pleased. Obviously, Harris and Chason were friends. That spoke well for Chason, who had spent twenty-six years on the job, but whom Sabara could not remember ever having seen before he walked into his of fice.

"Mr. Chason was just telling me that he was engaged just a few days ago to investigate Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham, " Sabara said.

"No shit?" Tony asked, looking at Phil.

Phil nodded.

"How did you know we're looking for him?"

"I didn't, but I'm not surprised. He's a sleazeball."

"You didn't see the Locate, Do Not Detain?" Sabara asked, just to be sure.

"No, I didn't."

"Who hired you to check Ketcham out?" Tony asked.

"Joey Fiorello," Phil said.

Tony grunted.

"You don't happen to know where he is, do you, Phil?"

"Sorry."

"The other interesting thing Mr. Chason had to say, Tony, was that Fiorello is also interested in learning the names of some other narcotics officers."

"Narcotics Five Squad officers?" Tony asked quietly.

"I don't know about that, but there was a drug bust at the Howard Johnson motel last Thursday…"

"That's interesting," Sabara said.

"Can I ask what's going on?" Phil asked.

"That's a tough one," Sabara began. "Mr. Chason, we're working on something-I can't answer that question. You understand."

"Horseshit," Tony Harris said. "Mike, I've known Phil for twenty years. If there are two honest cops in the whole department, Phil's the other one. The more he knows about what we're trying to do, the more useful he's going to be."

That was a clear case of insubordination. Not to mention using disrespectful language to a superior officer. And, for that matter, Harris was clearly guilty of being on duty needing a shave and a haircut.

But on the other hand…

"The other honest cup? You mean you and him?"

"Well, maybe Washington and Wohl, too," Harris said. "That would make four, but I'm not so sure about Wohl…"

"For the record, Tony, I told you not to tell him…"

"So report me."

"… so I will tell him," Sabara finished. "With the understanding none of this leaves this room, Mr. Chason? "

"Yes, sir."

"Vincenzo Savarese's granddaughter is in the psychiatric ward of University Hospital, in pretty bad condition, " Sabara began. "Somebody called up there and said she had been orally raped."

"I don't get the connection," Phil said.

"Ronald R. Ketcham is the girl's boyfriend," Tony said. "And no one seems to know where he is."

"Ketcham must be a ladies' man," Chason said. "What I heard was he was carrying on hot and heavy with a Main Line-Bala Cynwyd-princess named Longwood."

"Same girl, Phil," Tony Harris said.

"And she's Savarese's granddaughter? And this guy raped her? Don't hold your breath until you find him, Tony," Phil said and then had a chilling thought.

"Oh, shit! And I told Joey Fiorello, who told Savarese…"

"How were you to know?" Tony Harris said. "Phil, let's start at the beginning again. Maybe there's something there."

"About a year ago," Phil began.

Despite his intention to rise at noon, Detective Harry Cronin had woken a little after three P.M. to the sound of cooking utensils banging in the kitchen. He rose from the couch and went into his kitchen.

"Hi, baby!" he said to Mrs. Cronin.

She gave him a sadly contemptuous look but did not reply.

"I'm sorry about last night, honey. What happened was I went by the Red Rooster-"

"And got plastered," Patty finished for him.

He accepted the accusation with a chagrined nod.

"Just because you're back on nights, Harry," Patricia said, "does not mean you're going to start going to the Red Rooster and-"

"It was a one-time thing, baby."

"It better have been, Harry," Patty said, then closed the conversation by adding, "You better take a shower and a shave. It's time for you to go to work."

"Right," Harry agreed.

When he came back downstairs, shaved, showered, and ready both to go to work and apologize, sincerely, to Patty for his lapse, she wasn't in the house.

So there had been nothing to do but go to work, and he had done so.

It turned out to be a slow night, and there had been a chance for him about ten o'clock to go into a drugstore and buy Patty a large box of assorted Whitman's chocolates as sort of a let's-be-friends-again peace offering.

Patty was always pleased when he bought her a box of Whitman's. She might forgive him. On the other hand, for the next two weeks or whatever, until the chocolates were gone, whenever she ate one, she would be reminded of why he had given them to her.

What the hell, he decided. She has a right to be pissed. Buy the chocolates anyway.

Later, he was pleased with his decision. There was no place he could have conveniently bought flowers-which would last only a couple of days-and flowers would have been a confession he had really fucked up, not only had a couple more drinks than he should have had.

At five minutes after midnight, he got into his four-year-old Chevrolet full of resolve not to go to the Red Rooster, but home, where he would fix things up with Patty.

His route took him past a deserted NIKE site.

He slowed and took a good long look. There was nothing. No lights. No sign of activity. Zilch.

But Harry Cronin knew that something was going on in that goddamn NIKE site.

He had absolutely nothing to support this belief except the intuition that comes to intelligent men with nineteen years on the job, thirteen of them as a detective.

He had had this feeling about the NIKE site from the time the Army had moved out, although at that point it was more a logical suspicion that-deserted buildings attract illegal activity-some kind of illegal activity would take place in the future.

But the feeling Harry had then was not the feeling he had now. Now he knew something wrong was going on at the NIKE site, and he knew that it was something more than somebody talking his girl into going into one of the buildings with mutual criminal intent to violate the still-on — the-books statutes prohibiting fornication.

And Cronin didn't think it was dope. Dope dealers need a reasonably discreet location to serve their clientele. A string of people making their way through the hurricane fence from the street to the buildings and then back out would attract unwanted attention.

Philadelphia police officers had no authority inside the fence, but the moment someone walked back out through the gate in the fence, with that day's supply of joints, or whatever, they would again fall under Philadelphia police authority.

What went on inside the hurricane fence with the now-getting — a-little-rusty "U. S. Government Property. Trespassing Forbidden Under Penalty of Law" warning signs attached at twenty-five-foot intervals to the fence was absolutely none of Detective Harry Cronin's business, and he knew it.

Having reminded himself of all this, he decided to go with his gut feeling, even if that meant he would be a little late getting home and Patty would sniff his breath the minute he walked in the door.

He slowed even further, and made a U-turn and drove back to the gate in the hurricane fence.

When he got out of the car and opened the gate, it occurred to him that, in the eyes of the feds, he was probably an illegal trespasser. And with his luck, some overpaid federal bureaucrat, to make a little overtime, would make one of his twice-a-year four-hour detailed inspections of the property right about now.

That meant he would drive past the place probably faster than Harry had, without stopping. That would be four hours on his overtime time sheet.

Harry almost had second thoughts.

But there was a place scraped free of rust on the gate hinges.

Somebody's been in here, and recently. Fuck it. If I don't go in, I'll be up all night wishing I had.

He drove slowly around the compound, flashing his flashlight into dark corners, wishing that he had with him the six-cell flashlight he carried in his unmarked car, rather than the little two-celler he kept in the glove compartment of the Chevrolet.

Zilch.

But then the headlights, not the flashlight, picked up tire tracks in the mud. The mud hadn't had a chance to dry completely.

Harry deduced, Some son of a bitch has been in here, and in the last couple of days.

Probably the bureaucrat.

But maybe not.

He stopped the Chevrolet and got out and examined the tire tracks sufficiently to determine they were truck tires, light truck tires. From a pickup truck, not passenger tires.

What the hell is going on around here?

He walked to the nearest building and shone his light on the exposed hinges of the steel door. Bright scratches in the rusted metal told him the door had recently been opened.

He pushed the door open and went inside.

He walked down the corridor.

The smell of feces and urine assailed his nostrils. Some fucking bum is in here. Or was in here. I hope was. The last thing I want right now is to find some dead bum in here. I'd never get home tonight. What a smart man would do would be turn around and get his ass out of here.

There were three doors opening off the corridor. Two of the doors were open.

In one of the rooms, his nostrils found the source of the smell of feces.

And a pile of clothes.

Nice clothes. Not a bum's clothes.

What the hell is going down in here?

The third door was closed, with latches that reminded Cronin of his time as Fireman First Class, USN.

The last time he had been in here, all the doors had been open.

Harry worked the levers and pushed the door inward.

Somebody's taken a dump in here, too.

What the fuck is that?

"Listen, we have to talk!" a naked man sitting against the wall with an overcoat over his shoulders said plaintively. "Please, let's talk!"

"I'm a police officer," Harry said. "Everything's going to be all right."

"Thank God!" the man said.

"You want to tell me what happened?"

"You're a policeman?"

"Detective Cronin, South Detectives."

"Look, all I want to do is go home. Where's my clothes?"

"What did you say your name was?"

"All I want to do is go home."

"I don't think that's going to be possible right now," Harry said. "Now, what did you say your name was?"

"I don't have to tell you a goddamn thing!" the naked man said with absolutely no confidence, but a certain desperation, in his tone.

What the fuck do I do now? I'm off-duty. I've got no authority inside that fucking fence. And, since I'm in my own car, I don't even have a goddamn radio to call this in!

Matt Payne, who had been watching a program of television commercials interrupted by three-minute segments of a John Wayne leading the cavalry against the Chiricahua Apache movie, jumped out of bed when there was a knock at the door, went to it, stood behind it, and pulled it open first a crack, then all the way.

"It's not that I am not delighted to see you, but does your mommy know where you are, little girl?"

"I hope not," Susan said. "Would it be too much to ask you to put your shorts on?"

"Don't trust yourself, eh?"

"Oh, God!"

"What did you do, sneak out?"

He went to the chest of drawers, found a pair of Jockey shorts, and pulled them on.

"Okay?"

"Thank you."

"Under the circumstances, I suppose a blow-"

"I've heard that before, Matt-my God, you can be vulgar! — and I don't think it's funny."

"Why do I have this unpleasant feeling that we are about to have a very serious conversation?"

"Because we are," Susan said. "I've been thinking."

"Pure, asexual thoughts only, obviously."

"I've been thinking about what you said at lunch."

"I said a lot of things at lunch," Matt replied. "You mean about letting me arrest Jennifer?"

Susan nodded. "Would that work?"

"It's iffy, honey," Matt said now serious. "Starting with the first premise, that she can get away from Chenowith. "

"She met me alone the last time. Behind a restaurant in Doylestown. And she had their baby with her."

"And if she doesn't bring the baby this time?"

"Matt, this was your idea in the first place."

"I'm trying to think of all the things that can-and probably will-go wrong."

"Tell me what will happen from the moment you arrest her."

"Well, I put the cuffs on her-and there's problem one, because I don't have any handcuffs."

"Excuse me?"

"My handcuffs are in Philadelphia. When you first go on the job, you carry your handcuffs with you all the time. After a while, you realize (a) that not only aren't you using them very much-in my case, never-and (b) that they're uncomfortable to carry around, so you start leaving them at home, which is where mine are."

"Is that important?"

"Yeah, it's important. From what you tell me, Jennifer is not going to go to the slammer willingly. I'm going to have to immobilize her."

"Can you buy a pair of them here?"

"I don't know. I'll have to do something."

"And then what?"

"Well, I could put her arm behind her back, and physically restrain her-which isn't as easy as it looks in the movies-until I can get on the radio and call for the local cops. I'm not sure, problem two, if the Doylestown cops are on one of my frequencies. We'd have to play that by ear."

"I'm confused."

"Presuming she will meet you in Doylestown, we won't know if I can call the cops on the radio until we get there and I can try it. Let me put it this way. Best possible situation. I put handcuffs on her, throw her in the back of the car, and drive her to the Doylestown Police Station. They'll hold her for me-I think-if I identify myself as a Philadelphia cop who has made an arrest in their jurisdiction…"

Matt stopped, obviously having had another, distressing, thought.

"What?" Susan asked, picking up on this.

"If the Doylestown cops, or the state police, see you, they'll wonder who you are. So we can't let them see you. And…"

He stopped again, and then, after a long moment, shrugged.

"What's that shrug of resignation all about?" Susan asked.

He met her eyes.

"My orders are quite clear," he said. "I am not to do anything but inform the FBI when I think you are about to go meet any member of the Chenowith Group. I am not supposed to try to make the collar by myself. I've been told that by everybody but the mayor."

"So you'll be in trouble?"

He nodded.

"And you don't want to do it, now that you've thought it over?"

"I didn't say that," he said. "What we're doing now is talking. The money is another problem. My priority is to get you out of this mess. I'm trying to figure the best way to do that. And the thing we have to keep in mind is what Lincoln said."

"What Lincoln said?"

" 'You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time,' " Matt quoted. "We'll be dealing here with some very bright people. We-"

"You're talking about the cops?"

He nodded. "And the FBI. Most of what really will have happened is going to come out. Right now, they can't prove-although I'm sure they suspect-that you've been holding the money for them. Maybe throwing the money in the river is the best thing to do with it. You would have to lie under oath-or at least claim the Fifth Amendment-that you never had it."

"I'm not a very good liar."

"You're better than you think you are," he said. "On the other hand, we could try this…"

He stopped, and visibly considered what he was about to say until Susan's curiosity got the best of her.

"What, Matt?"

"It's closer to the truth. Hell, it is the truth. Our story is that I made you realize the error of your ways. I convinced you that holding the money for these people was the wrong thing to do, and that your only chance was to cooperate with the authorities-me-and you (a) turned the money you had been holding over to me, and (b) arranged for me to meet, and thus be able to arrest, Jennifer, in exchange for me offering you immunity from prosecution. "

"Can you do that?"

"I wish I could. No, I can't. But cops have lied before, to get information they want, and if a lawyer can make the jury feel sorry for the accused, because she-you-were lied to, they might go a little easier on you. Maybe, knowing they were facing a damned good lawyer, the U.S. Attorney might decide to nol pros that one charge. It's unlikely, but possible. He's got other charges against you-meeting Chenowith in the Poconos, for one example-that he's not going to have any trouble proving."

"I am going to prison, aren't I?"

"It looks that way," Matt said almost idly. "But going with this repentant-sinner line, let me think out loud a little more. Are you sure you know where Chenowith is?"

"I know where they were living, if that's what you mean."

"You could lead someone there?"

"I'm not going to lead the FBI there, if that's what you're suggesting, not with Jennie and the baby in the house. He's not just going to give up, and you told me he's got a machine gun. I don't want Jennie or the baby shot."

"How do you feel about this?" Matt asked. "We meet Jennie. She has the baby. I arrest her. We take the money-hers and yours-and turn it over to the FBI. Who you then lead to Chenowith's house. It seems to me that a good lawyer just might be able to convince a jury that the repentant sinner was really trying to make things right, and was a nice person, to boot. She didn't want to tell the FBI where Chenowith was until she was sure the other misguided innocent, Jennifer, and her appealing babe-in-arms, were safe from danger from both the wicked Chenowith and the noble forces of law and order. But once she was sure the-"

"I don't like you very much when you sound so cynical, " Susan said.

"Oh, Jesus!"

"Sorry."

"While we were talking about this-you being repentant and wanting to make amends-the situation was unexpectedly brought to a crisis when Jennifer called, announced she wanted to get away, in fear of her life, from the monster Chenowith, and we had to act."

Susan looked at him, her lips pursed, for a long moment.

"How did we act?" she asked finally.

"I call Jack Matthews, and tell him I have to talk to him. He meets us in the restaurant. In Doylestown. While we are explaining to Jack how you have decided to do the right thing, Jennifer shows up-so far as Matthews is concerned-much earlier than she is supposed to. There is no time for Matthews to summon the Anti-Terrorist Group, or, for that matter, the local cops. We arrest Jennifer. You tell her not to say a word to anybody about anything until she's talked to a lawyer."

"She might not listen to me. As far as she is concerned, I will have betrayed her. Which is what I would have done."

"Get it through your head, goddamn it, that neither of you is going to walk on this. All we can do is cut our losses. If Jennifer insists on being a revolutionary heroine, that's her choice. And once she does that, you shift into your save-my-own-ass mode. Otherwise, you're going down the toilet with her."

"Maybe that's what's going to happen anyway," Susan said.

"What about us? Does this nutty bitch mean more to you than I do?"

She met his eyes, then shook her head.

"You know better than that," she said.

"There's something I think I should tell you," Matt said. "I was thinking about this too, watching that stupid cowboys-and-indians movie. And my solution to this problem-and I had damned near made the decision, before you knocked at the door-was to go out to your house, get your father out of bed, tell him all about the fucking mess you're in, and tell him that as far as I'm concerned, the best thing he can do for you is to convince you that your only chance to keep from going to jail for a long, long time is to go to the FBI right now and not only show them where Chenowith is, but cooperate with everything they ask you to do."

"You mean, without considering Jennifer and the baby at all?"

"Who's more important, what's more important? Us, or Jennifer?"

She looked into his eyes but said nothing.

"Honey, I don't want you to go to jail," Matt said. "I want to spend my life with you." His voice broke. "I love you, goddamn it!"

She touched his face.

"Oh, Matt!"

"Honey, I've been in women's prisons. Jesus Christ, I don't even want to think of you being in one of them."

"I don't want to go to prison," she said. "But I can't just-cut Jennifer loose. I just can't!"

"Even if it fucks us up once and for all?"

"Can we at least try to help Jennie and her baby?" Susan asked.

"And if it doesn't work? And I have to tell you, I don't think it will."

"I would have tried," Susan said.

"Is it that important to you?"

She nodded.

"I wish it wasn't," she said.

"Okay," Matt said. "We'll give it a shot."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Lieutenant Daniel Justice, Jr., reputedly the smallest, and without question the most delicate-looking White Shirt in the Philadelphia Police Department, was sitting at the lieutenant 's desk in South Detectives when Detective Harry Cronin walked in.

"Danny the Judge," as he was universally known, was connected by blood and marriage to an astonishing number of police officers, ranging from a deputy commissioner to a police officer six months out of the Academy. It was said that his mother needed help to raise her left wrist, on which she wore a charm bracelet with a miniature badge for each of her relatives on the job, including her husband, Detective Daniel Justice, Sr., Retired, known of course as "Big Danny."

The only scandal ever to taint the name of the Justice family occurred when "Danny the Judge," in hot pursuit of a sixteen-year-old car thief he had detected trying to break into an automobile, slipped on the ice and broke his wrist.

"To what do we owe the honor of your presence, Cronin, at this hour of the morning?" Danny the Judge asked.

"I need a favor, Lieutenant," Harry Cronin asked.

Danny the Judge could see in Cronin's face that whatever it was, it was important.

"What?" he asked.

"Call my wife and tell her I'm working," Harry Cronin said.

"Are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Doing what?"

"I'd appreciate it if you'd call my wife first, Lieutenant, " Harry said.

Danny the Judge looked at him a moment, then consulted a typewritten list of the home phone numbers of all the detectives in South Detectives, found Cronin's number, and called it.

"Patty? Dan Justice. Harry asked me to call. He's on the job and can't tell right now when he'll get home."

There was a pause as Mrs. Cronin replied.

"Patty, I wouldn't do that. When I tell you Harry's on the job, he's on the job. As soon as he can find a minute, I'll have him call you himself."

Danny the Judge replaced the telephone in its cradle and looked at Detective Cronin.

"Okay, Harry. Tell me how you're really on the job."

"I think it would be best if you came with me, Lieutenant, " Cronin said.

Danny the Judge rose from behind his desk-it was rumored that when he was seated behind the desk, his feet did not quite reach the floor-and followed Harry Cronin down to the parking lot and to Harry's Chevrolet.

In the backseat was a man wearing a too-small overcoat and handcuffs.

And what looked like nothing else.

Danny the Judge looked closer to confirm the nothing else.

"Who's this?"

"You have absolutely no reason to hold me against my will," the man wearing handcuffs and a too-small overcoat said without much conviction in his voice.

"His name is Ketcham, Ronald R."

"Really? Didn't you think that the Locate, Do Not Detain meant 'Do Not Detain'?"

"Sir?" Cronin asked. It was the first he'd heard of the Locate, Do Not Detain.

"Where're Mr. Ketcham's clothes?"

"I left them back there," Harry said.

"Where's 'there,' Harry?" Danny the Judge asked, a tone of impatience entering his voice.

"In the NIKE site," Harry said. "I found this guy, wearing nothing but the overcoat, locked up in one room, and his clothes in another."

"In the NIKE site? What the hell were you doing in the NIKE site?"

"I had a gut feeling that there was something wrong in there," Harry said. "So I went and had a look, and there he was."

Danny the Judge looked at Mr. Ketcham.

"Mr. Ketcham, what were you doing in the NIKE site?"

"I'm not going to say a word until I have a chance to consult with my attorney."

"Yes, sir," Danny the Judge said and turned to Harry. "You left his clothes there?"

"Yes, sir. I went through them until I found his wallet. But I thought…"

"We'll be with you in just a minute, Mr. Ketcham," Danny the Judge said and closed the door of Harry's Chevrolet.

He signaled Harry to follow him back into the building.

"You know, Harry, right, that we have no authority inside that fence? It's federal property?"

"Yes, sir."

They entered the building, and Lieutenant Justice signaled to the trainee behind the glass window to open the door.

"Wait," he said to Harry, then went through the door, where he removed the clipboard from its peg and read the Locate, Do Not Detain on Ketcham, Ronald R. again.

He first thought he should call his brother-in-law the deputy commissioner. There was no question that what he had in his hands was shortly going to come to the attention of the upper echelons of the Philadelphia Police Department.

But the Locate, Do Not Detain-more than a little unusually-specifically ordered that ChInsp. Coughlin, Insp. Wohl and/or Sgt. Washington be notified immediately.

It had been Lieutenant Justice's experience that one got one's ass a little less deep in a crack if one followed one's orders to the letter, rather than doing what seemed like the logical thing to do.

He turned to the sergeant on duty.

"You know what kind of a car Cronin drives?"

"Yes, sir."

"There's a man in the backseat. Get him out of there. Put him, alone, in a detention cell. A clean detention cell. Take the cuffs off him and get him a couple of blankets. Don't talk to him, and don't let him near a telephone."

"Yes, sir."

Taking the Locate, Do Not Detain with him, Danny the Judge left the office and motioned for Detective Cronin to follow him up the stairs.

He took a copy of the Philadelphia Daily News from the sergeant's desk, handed it to Cronin, and ushered him into the captain's office.

"Read the newspaper, Harry," he ordered. "And stay in here. And don't talk to anybody."

"Yes, sir," Detective Cronin said. By now he had come to deeply regret having taken a look around the NIKE site.

Danny the Judge went back to the lieutenant's office, consulted the Locate, Do Not Detain, and dialed a number.

"Dan Justice at South, Chief," he said. "I hope I didn't wake you up?"

"How are you, Danny? How's Margaret?" Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin replied.

"Just fine, Chief. About that Locate, Do Not Detain on a man named Ketcham?"

"You found him?"

"Yes, sir. I just put him in a detention cell downstairs."

"It said 'do not detain,' Danny," Coughlin said.

"Chief, I think it might be a good idea if you came down here."

"What happened, Danny?"

"A detective-Harry Cronin-found him wearing nothing but an overcoat in one of the NIKE sites."

"They're federal property," Coughlin said. "Wearing nothing but an overcoat, you said?"

"Yes, sir."

"You notify anybody? The feds?"

"No, sir. This is my first call."

"Don't call anybody else. No. Call Inspector Wohl and Sergeant Washington-you have their numbers-put the arm out for them, if necessary, and ask them to meet me there as soon as they can get there."

"Yes, sir."

"And I mean, don't call anybody else, Danny. And don't let Mr. Ketcham call anybody until I get there."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't let the detective-Cronin?-"

"Yes, sir."

"— talk to anybody, or get away."

"Yes, sir."

"Inspector Wohl," Peter said to the telephone, aware that despite his best intentions, he had not been able to answer the official telephone beside his bed soon enough to prevent Amelia A. Payne, M.D., who was sleeping with her head on his chest, from waking.

"Dan Justice, sir, at South Detectives."

"How are you, Danny?" Wohl replied. "What's up?"

Amy pushed herself off him, sat up, and looked down at him. Inspector Wohl was not sure whether it was in annoyance or simple female curiosity.

"We located Ketcham, Ronald R., sir," Danny the Judge said.

"Great! Where is he?"

"In the detention cell downstairs, Inspector."

"Danny, that was a Locate, Do Not Detain!"

"Yes, sir," Danny the Judge admitted, sounding a little sheepish. "Inspector, I just talked to Chief Coughlin. He told me to put the arm out for you and Sergeant Washington, and to tell you to meet him here."

"Okay. Where was Ketcham, Dan?"

"One of our detectives-Harry Cronin-found him in a deserted NIKE site. Wearing nothing but an overcoat."

"Let me have that again?"

"Harry Cronin found him in one of the NIKE sites. His clothing was in one room, and he was locked up in another. "

"I'll be damned," Peter said. "You talk to Washington yet?"

"He's next, sir."

"Tell him I'll be in my car in three minutes, and to give me a call if he wants me to pick him up; it's on my way."

"Yes, sir."

Wohl replaced the telephone in its cradle and sat up.

"Tell me why you'll be damned, Peter," Amy said.

"Go back to sleep, honey. I've got to go to South Detectives. "

"Who is Ronald… What was that? 'Ketcham'?"

"Oh, Jesus, honey!"

"The way you said that, I really want to know."

"The missing boyfriend," Peter said.

"Cynthia Longwood's boyfriend?"

Wohl nodded.

"He's been arrested? What for?"

"Honey, it's sort of complicated," Peter said as he swung his feet out of bed and stood up.

"I want to know, Peter. I have a right."

"The minute there's anything I can tell you, I will. I promise," Wohl said as he took linen from a chest of drawers and ripped open the paper wrapped around a stack of laundered shirts.

"You're going to see him?" Amy asked, and before he could reply, added: "I'm going with you."

"No, you're not," Wohl said firmly. "Honey, as soon as I have anything for you, I'll tell you."

One corner of her mind was impressed with the rapidity with which he was changing from a naked man-a naked lover-into a fully dressed police officer.

Is that what married life would be like with him? The phone rings in the middle of the night, he throws on his clothes like a quick-change artist, and he goes out to return who the hell knows when?

"Peter, I want to go with you. You wouldn't even know about him-how did you get his name, by the way? — if it wasn't for me."

"Amy, please don't push me on this," Peter said.

She didn't reply. She pushed herself up so that her back rested on the headboard, folded her arms under her breasts, and watched as he tied his necktie without using a mirror.

He went into his bedside table for his revolver, slipped it into a waist holster, and leaned down to kiss her.

"If I can't get back here, I'll call you," he said.

The kiss she gave him was considerably less enthusiastic than the previous kiss had been.

And then he was gone.

She didn't move for several minutes, during which time she heard the sound of his car door opening and closing, the sound of his engine starting, and then of the car driving away.

Then she reached for the telephone book on the shelf under the bedside table, started to thumb through it, and realized there was probably a quicker way to get the information she needed, plus directions on how to get there.

She dialed the telephone.

"Police radio."

"Could you give me the address of South Detectives, please?"

"Is there some way I can help you, ma'am?" the female voice countered.

"This is Dr. Payne, of University Hospital," Amy said. "I just got a call asking me to meet Chief Inspector Coughlin at South Detectives. I need to know where it is and the best way to get there?"

"You're at University Hospital, Doctor? Could you give me the number?"

"I'm at the residence of Inspector Wohl," Amy said. "The number here is…"

The police radio operator decided the call was legitimate. She had, within the past five minutes, received calls from both Chief Inspector Coughlin and Inspector Wohl announcing they were en route to South Detectives, and she knew the number the caller had given was that of the official residence telephone of Inspector Wohl.

She gave Dr. Payne what was in her opinion the quickest way to get from the 800 Block of Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill to South Detectives at this hour of the morning.

"Do you want me to tell Chief Coughlin you're on your way, Doctor?"

"That won't be necessary," Amy said. "He knows I'll get there as soon as I can. Thank you very much."

Amy hung up and got out of bed and started to get dressed.

The police radio operator opened her microphone.

"Isaac Three."

"Go ahead."

"Chief, I just spoke with Dr. Payne. She's en route to South Detectives."

"Give me that again?"

"Dr. Payne is en route to South Detectives."

"Okay. Thank you," Chief Coughlin said and dropped the microphone on the seat of his car. And added, "Oh, shit!"

Sergeant Leonard Moskowitz of South Detectives had figured that he owed Mickey O'Hara a big one since the previous December, when Mickey had arranged for a photograph of his eldest son, Stanley, at his bar mitzvah at Temple Israel to be prominently displayed in the society section of the Bulletin.

This might not entirely repay Mickey for his kindness, but it would be at least a down payment.

"O'Hara," Mickey answered his telephone somewhat sleepily.

"Lenny Moskowitz. I didn't call you."

"What didn't you say when you didn't call me?"

"I don't know what the hell this is all about, Mickey, but I thought you might be interested."

"In what?"

"About an hour ago, Harry Cronin, who went off at midnight, brought a citizen in here wearing nothing but an overcoat. Danny the Judge put him in a detention cell, and Harry in the captain's office. Then he called Denny Coughlin, Inspector Wohl of Special Operations, and Jason Washington of Homicide."

Jason doesn't work in Homicide anymore. I'm surprised Moskowitz doesn't know that.

"And?"

"They're all here. Plus some guy, a heavy hitter, from the FBI. And a lady doctor."

"Has the guy in the overcoat got a name, Lenny?"

"Ketcham, Ronald."

"Nice not to talk to you, Lenny. I owe you a big one."

"I figure I still owe you," Sergeant Moskowitz said and hung up.

On being advised by Lieutenant Daniel Justice that Mr. Michael J. O'Hara of the Bulletin was in the building and desired a minute or two of his time, Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin left the small room equipped with a one-way mirror adjacent to the interview room and went to speak to him.

"We're going to have to stop meeting this way, Mickey," he greeted him. "People will start to talk."

"Ah, Denny, you silver-tongued devil, you!"

"I'd love to know who tipped you to this. He would be on Last Out for the rest of his life, walking a beat in North Philly." Last Out was the midnight-to-eight shift.

"What do you mean, 'who tipped me'? I was on my way home, Denny, for some well deserved rest, when what do I hear on the radio? You're coming here. Peter Wohl is coming here. So I figured, what the hell, I'd come down here, we'd all have a cup of coffee, chew the rag a little-"

"Chew the rag a little about what, for example?"

"For example, why did you put the arm out for Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham?"

"Ronald R. Ketcham? I don't seem to recall the name."

"And why, if it was a Locate, Do Not Detain, did he wind up in a holding cell?"

"A holding cell?"

"Wearing nothing but an overcoat."

"Mickey, you have your choice between me throwing you out of here myself, or agreeing to really sit on this one. And that may mean permanently sitting on it. Now and forever."

"You got a deal, Denny."

"I'll fill you in later," Coughlin said. "I don't want to miss any of this."

He waved O'Hara into the small room with the one-way mirror adjacent to the interview room. There Mr. O'Hara found Inspector Peter Wohl; Amelia Payne, M.D.; Mr. Walter Davis, Special Agent in Charge of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; a well-dressed individual Mr. O'Hara correctly guessed was also in the employ of the FBI; and Lieutenant Daniel Justice.

Through the one-way mirror, he saw Sergeant Jason Washington and a distraught-looking man sitting in a chair wearing nothing but a blanket around his shoulders.

Mickey waved a cheerful hello.

The FBI agent Mickey didn't recognize looked confused.

Mr. Davis of the FBI looked very uncomfortable, as did Danny the Judge.

Dr. Payne smiled at him absently, her attention devoted to what was going on on the other side of the mirror.

Inspector Wohl smiled in recognition and resignation.

Mickey helped himself to a cup of coffee, then sat down, backward, in a wooden chair and watched Sergeant Washington interviewing Mr. Ketcham.